


myopic

by slaughterhouse



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Canon Compliant, Friends With Benefits, Fuckbuddies, Light Angst, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:41:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27328960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slaughterhouse/pseuds/slaughterhouse
Summary: Both Atsumu and Sakusa know this too well about him. Him and his short-sightedness. Myopia and all. Running headlong into a freak accident without thinking of the repercussions, the costs it would take to repair his car and all.Sakusa Kiyoomi's proposition of being fuckbuddies is a freak accident just waiting to happen and what does Miya Atsumu do? He dives headfirst into it.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Kudos: 38





	myopic

Miya Atsumu causes a scene in their local izakaya and it goes like this:

“Omi-kun,” Atsumu says, accent thick and throat tight, “I think I like you. And I thought—” He looks at Sakusa, who is wearing his usual mask of nonchalance across his face. “I thought I should tell you.”

“If you don’t mind, may I ask  _ why  _ you thought you should tell me?” Sakusa’s voice is cold. There is the tiniest bit of a frown marring his lips. “I thought we had an agreement not to do  _ shit  _ like this, Miya.”

The words hurt. If Atsumu could wax poetic about the hurt he feels about the situation, then he would probably say something about it digging crescents into his skin with its nails, pressing down until he bleeds. He would probably say something about the pain he feels being closer to agony. He would probably say something about the other man making his stomach swirl with hurt and his heart ache with longing. He longs for this man so much that he makes him feel like hurt should be a routine, like pain should be an everyday thing. 

The words hurt, no matter what angle he tries to look at it. And of course they do when they come from the man you have admired for two years and loved for a couple more. But Atsumu is no poet nor is he the type to go into dramatics about the pain he feels from getting rejected by a man he’s waited years to confess to. Atsumu is not the type to go into dramatics about things he shouldn’t bother with, especially as a professional athlete and first-string setter of the Black Jackals who cannot afford to have his heart broken.

Instead, his pain materializes itself out of thin air and manifests like this. There, falling from Atsumu’s lips, is his hurt: “I thought I should tell you this, Omi-kun.” He stops himself, letting go of the nickname. He stammers, struggling with his words, “Omi—  _ Sakusa _ . I thought I should tell you because it’s been five months since our agreement.”

Sakusa quirks an eyebrow, his arms folded over one another as a challenge, maybe. “And I thought you only wanted to do this for the pleasure, Miya. I thought you only wanted to fuck whenever I want, whenever you want it, because we’re supposed to blow off steam.”

Atsumu can only look at Sakusa now, his throat closing up as if it is a river that has been dry for months now. “I’m not doing this to be a burden to you, Sakusa.” He turns away from him, no longer able to look. “I didn’t think that my feelings would be such a burden for ya.”

Atsumu looks at him one more time, then turns his back to him and starts to leave. Sakusa hesitates, before circling his fingers around Atsumu’s wrist. “Miya, I thought you didn’t want to hurt me.” Atsumu looks at him, confused, bewildered. “You don’t know what you think you’re saying. You’re hurting me more when you’re trying to tell me all these things about you loving me when you know as well as I do that you’re only confused about the feelings you have for me.”

Atsumu spits out, “What?” He pulls his hand away from Sakusa. “Why are you trying so hard to convince me that I don’t like you? I never said that I love you, Omi-kun—  _ Sakusa.  _ I only ever said that I like you.” He glares at him, his eyebrows pinched. “I didn’t think you would act like this when I’m trying to tell you how I feel. I didn’t think you would pull this shit about me not knowing how I feel about you.”

Sakusa looks like he’s near tears and Atsumu wants to slap himself after saying what he had just said. “Okay, Miya.” He hesitates once more. “Atsumu, I just want you to, I don’t know, get your head out of your ass and try to think straight. You’re not in your right mind yet.”

—

If you would ask Miya Atsumu just how he had landed himself in a sticky situation just a couple of years after joining the Jackals and remeeting Sakusa Kiyoomi, the collegiate MVP and ace spiker of the old Itachiyama Volleyball Club, then he would probably tell you:

That he does not know when it even started. Desire is not a thread that you could easily tell where the start of it begins and the end of it, well, begins. It is not a loose thread that can easily be chopped off from someone’s heart, because desire is more of a chain that is wrapped around Atsumu’s long limbs and cut off one by one after a thousand years. But the thing is, he doesn’t know when he started looking at Sakusa Kiyoomi as more than a worthy opponent and more like a teammate. He doesn’t know when he started seeing Sakusa Kiyoomi as more like someone he admires. He doesn’t know when Sakusa transformed into Omi transformed into Omi-kun transformed into the boy that stars in his dreams, in his nightmares.

Maybe, if Atsumu was to be truthful about his own feelings and not brush them off in a sense of false boldness, exaggerated bravado as he usually does after a loss, then he would probably tell you: 

That he started wanting Sakusa Kiyoomi as more than a worthy rival and a competent teammate the moment Sakusa Kiyoomi had grabbed his hand after a match and took him to the locker rooms.

And this would sound completely normal for most teammates to do, but Sakusa Kiyoomi simply is not the type to grab the hands of his teammates, especially someone like Miya Atsumu whom he has somehow deemed looks like someone who doesn’t wash his hands thoroughly after he goes to the bathroom. Which is, certainly not true and even if it was, it shouldn’t be his business to talk about. 

But after all, this is Sakusa Kiyoomi we are talking about. We are talking about Sakusa Kiyoomi who values cleanliness over all other things. We are talking about Sakusa Kiyoomi who scrunched his nose at Miya Atsumu the first time they set their eyes on each other simply for the reason that his bleached-blond hair looked like  _ piss _ . We are talking about the teammate who allowed months to pass before he even willingly (read: Bokuto nudged him very gently to sit down next to Atsumu just so he could sit down with his boyfriend of all time) sat down next to Atsumu. Not exaggerating, Sakusa had sprayed Atsumu down to his lap with his little spray bottle of alcohol before he allowed their knees to touch underneath the round table.

See, this is Sakusa Kiyoomi. Sakusa Kiyoomi had grabbed Atsumu, dirty Atsumu, filthy Atsumu who does not wash his hands after his hourly bathroom break, too-loud Atsumu who never shuts up about anything, rambunctious Atsumu who clings unto chaos like it’s his second skin, all of these different versions of Atsumu by the hand and took him to the locker rooms and told him this one thing: 

“Miya, I’ve been having these—” Sakusa fiddles with his thumbs. “I don’t know what’s going on with me and I don’t know if it really has anything to do with you but I kind of have a big  _ problem  _ right now.”

Atsumu looks down immediately. Grins, saying, “And? What about it? Meian-kun’s after-match drills can wait. No one will look for them after all. Maybe Shou-kun could cover for them or something. “I can help you with that, Omi-kun.” He licks his lips. “If only you’ll let me.”

Sakusa heaves a sigh as he pulls down his shorts, as if Atsumu is the one asking him for a favor right now. “Okay,” he says, as if it feels heavy on the tongue, as if it feels humiliating to give Atsumu what he wants. Although how could Sakusa possibly know that he has been fantasizing about moments like this since he joined the team? “I know you  _ think  _ you like me and I want you to know that I’m not doing this just to lead you on or something. I’m not that much of an asshole, if that’s what you’re thinking.” He sighs.

Atsumu nods, gaze fixated on Sakusa’s bulge. Sakusa continues. “Just this once, Miya, alright. Just this once I’ll ask you for a favor.”

Atsumu’s grin grows wider as he sinks down to his knees. “And just this once,” he says in a sing-song voice, “you’ll owe me a favor.”

Sakusa runs his fingers through his hair, his nails digging down on his fried-blond scalp. Atsumu has never wanted anything more.

So what does Atsumu do? Right there in the locker room where Meian-kun could bust into right there and then, he sucks Sakusa off with one hip against his locker until Sakusa is cumming shakily into his mouth, his nails sharp against his scalp. Atsumu learns that he cum with his eyes rolled back, his thighs jittery with white-hot high.

—

They don’t talk about it afterwards. They don’t talk about it the next day, or the day after that, or the day after that. Sakusa doesn’t sit down next to him. Atsumu doesn’t bother wondering why because he knows how awkward it must be for a person as reserved as him.

Atsumu has been prepared for a week of ice from Sakusa’s side, a week of the cold shoulder and zero to none communication outside of the court, but nothing could have possibly prepared him for this:

Sakusa is standing outside his apartment, wearing little else but his gray cotton sweatpants and black muscle tee. Atsumu looks at him and notices, although he doesn’t let his gaze linger for too long, the way the soft fabric clings against the breadth of Sakusa’s shoulders and the lines of his chest. He notices the way black looks beautiful when contrasted against the pale white skin of Sakusa’s arms and laid against the constellation of moles down his sturdy forearms. 

But most of all, he notices how perfectly Sakusa’s legs, his calves seem to connect with his knees, with his thighs. Atsumu is not what you would call a leg guy, not exactly. He doesn’t typically pay too much attention to that kind of thing when looking for a romantic, or rather, sexual prospect to bring home after a night out. But Sakusa is prone to changing his mind about things like these. He’s always been so unpredictable, after all. One look at Sakusa Kiyoomi and he had Miya Atsumu popping a boner over the way his legs look.

Of course, the way a matching bulge grows under the fabric of his gray sweatpants does not escape Atsumu’s all-encompassing gaze as he takes all of Sakusa Kiyoomi in with his eyes. The twin bulge makes him swallow down a lump in his throat, letting go of the breath he has been holding since the moment Sakusa Kiyoomi had walked in. It is a surprise that he has not passed out yet, his face blue. It is a pity that the ground has not swallowed him up by now.

Miya Atsumu asks what the  _ hell  _ Sakusa Kiyoomi is doing in his apartment. He sits up straight and fixes the waistband of his own sweatpants that had gone askew and asks him what he’s up to.

Sakusa looks at him, impatient as they come, obsidian eyes aglint under the ceiling light. “Miya, I came here to ask if you—” Atsumu notices that he looks a little shy. It seems like a good look on him. “I don’t know, I wanted to ask if you wanted to do it again, maybe…?”

“ _ What?” _

Sakusa grits his teeth then. “I said, I wanted to ask if you wanted to do it again. If you have already forgotten what happened between us just last week and I must refresh your memory about the recent events, I am referring to what happened inside the locker room—”

“No,” Atsumu interrupts him, earning a glare. “I’m just wondering why it suddenly occurred to you that you wanted another round?”

Sakusa blinks at him. Maybe he had not thought this far. Being a realist could only do so much for him, after all. “I just wanted to have your lips around my cock, Miya. No big deal.” It actually is, but Sakusa has a way with words that makes the events seem like they are casual enough to be discussed with mixed company, with kids around and all. “You have a nice mouth that’s good for giving head. And I wanted you to suck me off again. Fuck me, maybe. That’s it.”

“Omi-kun,” Atsumu stammers, “I thought you’d never ask.” Ah, fuck. Oh well, he’s done it anyway. One, two, three. “But then, why can’t we just be, like, friends with benefits or something? Fuckbuddies?”

Sakusa looks at him pointedly. “We’re not even  _ friends _ , Miya.” Hm. Ouch. Still, Miya Atsumu knows that he should have expected it, especially coming from someone like Sakusa Kiyoomi. “But—”

Atsumu looks at him, head tilted to the right like a stray dog. “Hm?”

There, falling from Sakusa’s lips, is a proposition. It sounds like a scheme that would not go well, not in a million years, but Atsumu feels inclined to agree. Atsumu looks into Sakusa’s eyes, which are obsidian, black like the night, and feels himself swallow down the lump in his throat. His gaze flickers down to his mouth for just a moment, watching it slant into the tiniest bit of a smirk. Or was it a grimace? There, falling from Sakusa’s lips, is a proposition: “Sleep with me, Miya, then maybe we can figure it all out from there.”

What the hell had Miya Atsumu gotten himself into?

—

See, Miya Atsumu knows that he is too short-sighted for things like this to actually go well. Firstly, he does not know what situation he had just gotten himself into. And he doesn’t even  _ know  _ the safety precautions of falling into a pit of sexual encounters headfirst in spite of knowing that the guy on the other side will not catch him. The guy on the other side would probably spray his lifeless body with alcohol and slip on latex gloves before even touching him.

Both Atsumu and Sakusa know this too well about him. Him and his short-sightedness. Myopia and all. Running headlong into a freak accident without thinking of the repercussions, the costs it would take to repair his car and all. If Sakusa had been a parking space, Atsumu would have rammed into him headfirst, pummeling into him without so much as a second glance or even just a second thought. No, Atsumu could never think this far ahead, not even if his driving was reckless enough to send him careening into the car-filled road. 

Atsumu knows how reckless he is. He would have rammed right into every corner he allows him to, his eyes flitting past the red sign across his forehead, flashing neon light all over the room, ignoring it just as well as he takes no notice of the sign that says vertical space: 2.3 meters, knowing all too well that he's way past, knowing all too well that he's too much. He knows all too well that he can be too much for other people. He’d been a handful for his twin brother, a nuisance to his old teammates. But Atsumu can only hope that Sakusa would allow him to edge his way inside. Atsumu hopes that he would be able to tolerate him enough not to leave him outside.

Still, it has been weeks of peace. It had been weeks of fucking into each other like they were rabbits who could never get tired of each other’s holes, going through bottles of lube and packs of condoms at a pace quicker than normal people should. It had been weeks of sleeping together and sneaking quickies wherever and whenever they could. The venue and the time didn’t matter. Atsumu could get down and dirty anywhere with him. They fucked in the locker rooms and the bathroom of a karaoke bar and each other’s apartments. They took each other apart in Atsumu’s car with the window rolled down to let off some steam, against Sakusa’s kitchen counter. They fucked anywhere they could just to blow off some steam after wins and losses, near-wins and near-losses and everything in between.

—

Maybe the weeks of peace had been the calm before the storm that has been threatening to hit, quietly brewing in the tranquility of the past few days. It’s a cold winter night. Sakusa is standing outside of Atsumu’s apartment, his hand reaching out for the door when it is pulled open. Atsumu tries to pull him inside immediately, but he stands still, as still as he possibly could when his hands are stuffed into the pockets of his coat to reach for as much warmth as he can.

Sakusa Kiyoomi looks beautiful in winter, like half of his nightly dreams. Atsumu knows he looks just as beautiful in all of the other seasons he has seen him in, but he looks even more beautiful with his hair glazed with snow and his cheeks flushed pink. He shivers in the cold, winding his knitted red scarf tighter around his neck.

“What are you doing here, Omi-kun?” Atsumu asks. He looks back at his apartment and curses himself for not cleaning up because he hadn’t expected he would have guests at an ungodly hour. “And do come inside now, you’re going to get sick at any rate if you don’t—”

“ _ Miya, _ ” Sakusa punctuates, his teeth chattering still, “listen to me.”

Atsumu straightens up, intimidated. Who wouldn’t be, when Sakusa Kiyoomi is looking down on him like he had robbed him blind? Had he? He hadn’t. Why was Sakusa looking at him so pointedly, then?

“Look, Miya.” Sakusa looks down at his feet, his boots kicking at one another. Atsumu would have found it cute if he wasn’t scared out of his own mind. “I think we should break it off.” He nearly bites off his bottom lip with how hard he’s pulling it under the ridges of his sharp, sharp teeth. “You know, this whole arrangement we have.”

Atsumu’s alarms go off at full speed, blaring red in the depths of his mind immediately. “What? Omi-kun, did I hear that right?” He tries to laugh it off, but it only sounds bitter falling off his lips. “Why? Why now? What happened? Did I do anything wrong to you, Omi-kun?”

“No, Miya,” Sakusa says, and it makes Atsumu furrow his eyebrows in confusion. “You see, the thing is, I don’t know what you’re doing to me. Because you’re all these things I don’t like in a person.” Hm. Ouch. But fair enough. “You’re all of these things that I don’t like but I can’t stop thinking about you. I can’t fucking stop thinking about the way you’re being so considerate to me about all of my needs even when it hadn’t been guaranteed that I could fuck you like you want. I can’t stop thinking about the way you only think about me.”

Atsumu is bewildered. “What, Omi-kun? Is that it? Then we can—”

Sakusa stops him. “Don’t interrupt me when I’m talking, Miya,” he huffs. “You see, I can’t fucking stop thinking about the way you only think about me when we sleep together. You’re the same on and off the court.” At this, the setter allows himself to laugh a little. “You’re still thinking about me and what I need to perform better and what I want to do and what I should do to get there.” He swallows down a lump in his throat. “But it shouldn’t work like that, Miya. It shouldn’t be a one-way kind of arrangement. You shouldn’t keep giving only for the other person to take what he needs and never give back.”

Atsumu places his hands on Sakusa’s shoulders, gentle, tender. “It doesn’t have to be like that, Omi-kun. We can, I don’t know, try to negotiate if you don't think that things will work out like this. You know I’m always willing to listen to what you have to say and what you want to do. I trust your judgment the most, after all. We can still try to make it work. I’m willing to make it work.” He’s desperate. Any minute now and Sakusa would have him saying please. “Omi-kun.”

Atsumu is short-sighted, driven blind with too much longing. And he fades away into the night when Sakusa shrugs him off and says, “I’m sorry, Miya. I don’t think I want to try any harder. I really don’t think that this would work between us. You need someone who’s willing to put in the work. You need someone who isn’t me.”

Atsumu does not ask the forbidden question: What if you’re not the one I need but the one I want? Instead, he drinks his aches down. A bottle of beer after another, driven drunk with too much wanting.

—

They don’t talk about it afterwards. They don’t talk about it the next day, or the day after that, or the day after that. Sakusa doesn’t sit down next to him. Atsumu doesn’t bother wondering why because he knows how awkward it must be for a person as reserved as him.

Atsumu has been prepared for a week of ice from Sakusa’s side, a week of the cold shoulder and zero to none communication outside of the court, but nothing could have possibly prepared him for this:

Sakusa Kiyoomi, drunk off his mind in a different neon-lit izakaya on the outskirts of Osaka, after they had gotten kicked out of the last one after Bokuto had made too much noise crying his eyes out after a fight with his beloved boyfriend and Shouyou, with his low tolerance for alcohol and all, had made a spectacle in the middle of the crowd, bumping against passersby and stepping on their shoes. 

Sakusa Kiyoomi, slinging his arms across Miya Atsumu’s neck, his touch setting him aflame, pulling him closer and closer to him until his mouth barely ghosted over the top of his neck. Sakusa Kiyoomi, whispering in the slope of Atsumu’s ear:  _ Come back, Miya. I think I was dead wrong for running away. I was wrong about what I felt.  _ Sakusa Kiyoomi, reaching out to hold Atsumu’s hand and intertwine their fingers together until Atsumu forgot whose hand the warmth that connected them belonged to. Sakusa Kiyoomi, holding unto his sweat-slick hand and not flinching away from his touch outright.

This is extremely uncharacteristically brazen of Sakusa Kiyoomi to do to someone like Miya Atsumu, whom he is supposed to dislike. See, this is Sakusa Kiyoomi. Sakusa Kiyoomi had grabbed Atsumu, dirty Atsumu, filthy Atsumu who does not wash his hands after his hourly bathroom break, too-loud Atsumu who never shuts up about anything, rambunctious Atsumu who clings unto chaos like it’s his second skin, all of these different versions of Atsumu by the hand.

So what does Atsumu do when Sakusa Kiyoomi asks him to take him back? Right there, in the middle of the streets, he kisses him until he runs out of breath, kisses him until he runs out of words to say. Right there, he takes him back, kissing him until he runs out of apologies. He doesn’t even care if he’s drunk. It doesn’t matter and it won’t matter the next day. All that matters for now is that Sakusa wants him back, even if it’s just for one night, just for tonight. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> i'm not going to lie, this was extremely rushed. it took me around two hours. i was supposed to write an angsty fic but i just cannot seem to write angst for any ship, particularly atsumu ships.


End file.
